Famous
by MetaYoz50K
Summary: You want to be rich and famous? I'll tell you straight out. It sucks. One-shot.


**An update after four months, and it's a one-shot of Soul Eater. You guys, fans of my other works, must hate me _so_ much. **

**No flames, just concrit. Sure, you can praise me, but what I reeeeeeeeeeeeeeally want is someone to tell me what I need to improve on. I know there has to be something bad in here.**

**Disclaimer: I don't own Soul Eater. If that wasn't blatant already.**

Soul Eater Evans. I never really liked this name. I never would.

Anyone who looked at an Evans would probably envy them. "The Evans! My my, bless the heavens." "Is that really them? I'd, like, so totally want an autograph!" "Holy, am I lucky or what? The Evans family, in the flesh!" They would prod me, asking, why do you look sad? Is not money, fame, good enough for you?

Well, guess what? I envy them, those people who're blissfully ignorant of the true meaning of being famous.

Wish I could go up to some famous person and say "Man, I want to be just like you when I grow up!" without knowing what my words are really saying. Normal people just think about the fame and glory that comes with success in the world of media. Me? All I think about is getting out of all this. Being famous means to live up to everyone's expectations. This is very hard. When you're trying to live up to several billion people's expectations, all you can do is try your best and hope it was good enough. In a world like this, only people with talent could step in and stay.

It's because I drew the short straw that I went on this path. Born as an Evans without talent, I might as well drown in a gutter for all the use I would be.

Sure, it was great at first. I was a prodigy at the piano since I was little. Lavished with praises, I strove to get better. To get respect and recognition. As my talented older sibling, I saw Wes as my goal, maybe even a rival, even though he was good on the violin while I played the piano.

Slowly but surely, my desire for respect from my parents turned to desire of respect from my genius brother. I even tried his violin once (Not a good memory.). Practicing, taking extra classes, rubbing my fingers raw, even my brother was slightly worried. But I continued, improving ever so slightly on that piano each day. For Wes.

One night, the night before my eighth birthday, Wesley quietly tip-toed into the piano room. Even then, I was too busy practicing to notice him. Looking over my shoulder, Wes glanced at the sheets, looked over to my slightly calloused, smooth hands, and widened his eyes. After, he simply stood to the side, watching me play a slightly twisted version of Chopin.

As the last note faded into the distance, Wes gave me a warm smile and tapped my head. "!" I spun around, only for him to ruffle my hair. "Not bad, Soul. It's cool how you added your flair to the piece. It gives off a creepy tone now."

(Cool. My first praise from Wesley. It had a nice ring. I decided right then and there that I would strive to be "cool".

After all, he _is_ my role model.)

Okay, I admit that my life was very rosy back then. I won awards, was invited to fancy dinner parties, and performed at concerts. Around my tenth birthday, I was congratulated by my family for being so amazing. Genius. Prodigy. Awesome. _Cool. Cool._

That was when I hit a slump.

It was a sudden brick wall in my progress. No, more like my proverbial potential well had dried up. That was how far my abilities could go. No matter how much I tried, I couldn't go anywhere. Meanwhile, Wes was getting further away.

Like I said, a talentless Evans is about as valuable as gutter trash. My family, seeing my abrupt halt in progress, turned away. Not quite calling me worthless, but you could see it in their eyes. Granny and Wes were the only ones to show sympathy. Even , my hostile home schooler, seemed much nicer compared to the cold shoulders my father, mother and grandfather were giving.

Some of you might not know how it feels like to have everything, only to lose it all. When you do, you first start doubting yourself, cling onto every hope, then, after a long string of pointless ordeals, finally accept that you have lost everything. A person who doesn't have anything can't do anything. They could only mourn. I even turned against Wes, my idol and friend even then, almost subconsciously. My admiration for him now held a prick of envy. For the talent he had that I could never obtain. I was nine then. I was just a kid, and my happiness was ripped to shreds.

And then I obtained something. My weapon blood, passed down from Granny.

* * *

><p>Just when I was eleven, it suddenly came over me, a wave of nausea that wobbled me to my soul. My vision suddenly became black, and although there was a slight breeze in the garden I was walking in, I felt nothing in here. A sudden picture of a grand, red and black scythe. Flashes of it kept swirling all around mesmerized me. A close-up of its hilt. The zig-zagged lines on the sides of the blade. The curiously-shaped top. (An eye?) They came and went like the light, but I somehow managed to see them all. With an abrupt halt, it all stopped.<p>

The last thing I thought before I hit the ground was just how cool the scythe looked.

I woke up in one of our hospital beds. (C'mon, we're filthy rich!) A nurse with long, strawberry-blonde hair, who was looming over me, breathed a sigh of relief before propping me up. I didn't feel sick anymore, so I excused her (she didn't budge) and left.

Or, um, I tried to.

I couldn't move. Slightly worried that I was drugged, I tried to squirm with all my might, only to fail. The nurse (I'd never seen her before, so I guessed that she was employed recently), realizing my discomfort, sighed and reached for a mirror on one of the desks. "One of the servants saw you faint on the ground and…transform. Please try not to be too surprised, Milord. Your parents have been expecting this from you."

_Pfft, expecting what? _Almost scoffing at the choice of words, I looked at the mirror to see my round, red eye staring back at me.

Only one eye.

That wasn't all: my arms and legs were gone, replaced by a hilt. I had a blade sticking out the side of my head. Most importantly, I had, in every aspect, turned into the scythe I saw while blacking out.

Of course, I did what most humans would do in these situations.

"WHAT THE HELL?"

* * *

><p>Reverting back was pretty easy, actually: with a few failures (My arms! How do I get them back?), I managed to transform my whole body back to the way it was. After explaining to my parents that nothing big was wrong; just weapon blood acting up (it was a fairly common occurrence in most people. Granny was a weapon, too.), I went on my computer to research as much as possible on this subject. It turned out that there were a few schools that were made to teach Weapons and Meisters, who were the ones who used the Weapons in combat.<p>

It was a rope tossed from the heavens, telling me to climb it and reach the top, or die trying. I would have to risk everything on this ability. However, I could be what I always wanted to be without carrying any extra burdens, letting my past go. I could use this blood to help others. Again, I could be something that _I_ wanted to be, not just what other people wanted me to be.

If I was what my parents called a "commoner" with weapon blood, I would never have gone through all this trouble. Instead of having to shamefully run away from the mansion in the middle of the night, I could strut proudly to the DWMA. I wouldn't have had to use an alias to hide my identity. I could never be proud of whatever I accomplished, because I know somewhere out there, there's someone better than me, who did this easier than me. I could never turn those feelings of inferiority into admiration or courage. I'm too afraid of hitting another roadblock, like the last time I tried my best out of respect for people better than me.

* * *

><p>That's what I thought until I met Maka. She was everything I wasn't. She looked up to the strong, never faltered when weak, shone with courage 247. She was better than me in every aspect, and I knew it. But I never hated her for it. I never shrunk away or hid. In fact, I began to respect her. I slowly turned back to my earlier days, back when I could be _confident_ and not feel shame for it.

When we first fought Crona and lost, I finally figured out how Maka could be so bright and confident. Beside my hospital bed, Maka, holding my hand, cried out why, why couldn't she be stronger? She didn't want me to be injured because she was so weak.

It was so glaringly obvious, right then and there. She never thought she was special; she thought _I_ was. That's where her confidence and courage came from! Because I was her partner. All this time, I thought I was the one learning from Maka when she was actually leaning on me…

She saw me as something I never saw myself as.

I decided, that's it, it's time to live up to her expectations. She depends on me, so I have to be strong. That way, she can lean on me. Until she can find her own courage to stand upon.

After all, we're partners, aren't we?

We're special.

We're_ cool._

**End**


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